


Forever Trusting Who We Are

by pinkwithoutplot



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, None - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-09
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2018-08-20 12:17:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8248576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkwithoutplot/pseuds/pinkwithoutplot
Summary: In the aftermath of Castiel's shocking revelation and subsequent disappearance, Dean is faced with a new catastrophe: A brother who remembers nothing of his past. Fearing a total meltdown, Dean and Bobby decide to wait and let the gory details of Sam's life come back to him in their own time. But keeping Sam in the dark leads the brothers down an unexpected path...





	

**Author's Note:**

> Set in the aftermath of 6x22, so some spoilers and references to previous seasons. I am seemingly incapable of writing Wincest without a heavy dose of angst and schmoop, but in my head this is ultimately a happy story! ;)

Dean mostly sat and watched Sam, slack-faced on the bunk in Bobby's panic room, the wrought iron devil's trap in the skylight casting chiaroscuro patterns on his body which shifted as the hours passed. He moved from the chair every now and then to refill his glass with Bobby's gut-rot or to stretch out his back and legs, the joints cracking like those of a man twice his age. Occasionally Sam would twitch and Dean's heart stuttered each time before sinking when his brother stilled again, and the only discernible movement was the slow rise and fall of his chest.

Once a day, Bobby would try and drag Dean out to see more daylight than the single shaft permeating the ceiling above the bed, and if he couldn't manage that, he'd bring him sandwiches and stand over him until he was sure at least one had been eaten. Dean ate when he had the gnawing emptiness in his belly, but there was no pleasure in it, and anyway - Bobby's culinary skills left a lot to be desired.

It had been four days since Castiel demanded they kneel and profess their love to him, their new god. Four days since they refused, and Cas had disappeared in a blaze of light and a miasma of bad feeling. Four days since Sam had checked out, collapsed and hit the deck before Dean had been able to cushion his fall. Four days since another piece of the wall came tumbling down.

Bobby had set up a rudimentary IV drip to get fluids into Sam, and while Dean worried about his methods and just how sanitary it was in the bunker, it seemed to be doing the job. Sam hadn't died of dehydration yet. But if this went on much longer, they'd have to think about how they would feed him. Dean thought his brother's bones seemed closer to the surface already, his features sharper, but he couldn't be sure he wasn't imagining it. Looking too hard for signs that weren't there. They were running out of favours to call in. Maybe they should just take him to a hospital. There would be difficult questions and Dean hated the thought of scamming the insurance for an indeterminate period – of being under constant threat of discovery and saddled with a hundred and ninety pounds of comatose Sam to move at a moment's notice. But this was his brother's life in the balance.  
“Shit!”  
Dean snagged his fingers in his hair and squeezed his eyes against the blunt pain he could feel starting to throb at his temples.  
“Sam. If you can hear me in there, this is all gettin' real inconvenient now, so why don't you c'mon and wake up 'fore I have to start forcing Bobby's peach cobbler down you. Fatten you up like a damn Christmas goose.”  
He scanned Sam's face for the slightest reaction but there was nothing. Dean looked around the panic room furtively and lowered his voice to a whisper.  
“Sammy, please. You can beat this – you did it before. You gotta come back to me, man. After everything we've...” He paused, checked the waver in his voice. “Well, you just have to, OK?”

Bobby shoved a chipped mug of coffee across the kitchen table and Dean eyed it disdainfully before taking a sip. It tasted like crap, and Dean scowled as he rose to retrieve the whiskey from the counter. He splashed it liberally into his mug and took another taste.  
“Better,” he said, and Bobby gave him a look which said _I'll hold my tongue now, but we'll pick this up later, boy_. For now he was probably just pleased to have lured Dean away from his bedside vigil, if only for a little while.  
“Gonna make start on the car?” Bobby asked. “Don't want rust settin' in.”  
“I'll get to her,” Dean replied.  
There was a thick silence for a while.  
“I been thinkin',” Bobby said finally.  
“Didn't strain anything, I hope?”  
“Funny. About Sam.”  
Dean looked up. The old man had his attention now.  
“Perhaps if he wakes up -”  
“ _When_ ,” Dean interjected. “ _When_ he wakes up.”  
Bobby sighed.  
“ _When_ he comes round, maybe you two should just...ease up for a while.”  
Dean raised an eyebrow and swallowed his mouthful of laced coffee.  
“What d'you mean?”  
“I mean this life. Sam's damaged goods now whether you wanna admit it or not, and he's gonna need lookin' after. You boys can't keep chasing monsters, not with your brother liable to go all _Awakenings_ on your ass. He's gonna get you both killed.”  
Dean bit his lip and shook his head.  
“So what? We retire? Buy a place in the country? Sit on our thumbs and turn a blind eye to all the shit we've spent our whole lives fighting? Nuh. He won't want that.”  
Dean slid his chair out from the table, swiped the liquor bottle and stalked out of the kitchen. Bobby closed his eyes and sighed deeply.  
“That went well,” he said to the empty room.

Dean was cat-napping in the chair when Sam woke up. The squeal of metal bed legs across the concrete floor jerked him out of his sleep and he sprung to his feet to find himself facing his brother. Sam had ripped the tube out of the vein in the back of his hand, and a trickle of blood ran down his middle finger. He clung to the bedstead, his legs shaky and coltish. His eyes were wild as his gaze flitted from Dean to their surroundings and back to Dean.  
“Sammy?”  
“Who are you?” he asked in a dry, scratchy voice.  
Dean blinked owlishly, and rubbed at his eyes, half afraid this was just a continuation of his dream.  
“Sam – it's me. You're OK. Just relax.”  
Sam's hands came out as if to ward him off, and only then did Dean realise he was moving towards the cot.  
“Where am I? What is this place?”  
A creeping sickness started in Dean's stomach as he studied Sam's face and saw the scared expression there, his brother's eyes void of recognition or affection.  
“Sammy, it's me,” he said carefully. “It's Dean. You've been out cold for days but you're safe. We're at Bobby's.”  
“You know me?” Sam's voice broke and he coughed a little, but flinched when Dean made to put a hand on his shoulder.  
“Of course I know you, Sam. I've known you all your life. You've had a nasty turn. Just stay calm, and it'll come back to you.”  
Sam's grip on the frets didn't ease up, his knuckles white and the veins standing out on his forearms.  
“Just take it easy,” Dean said, reaching out towards his brother in what he hoped was a soothing gesture.  
“I...don't,” Sam started. “I just...how'd I get here?”  
Dean's heart was pounding and a sweet, metallic taste he knew to be panic was blooming on the back of his tongue, but he tried to keep his voice even.  
“Bobby and me. We brought you back after Cas went supernova. You really don't remember?”  
“Cas? Who's she? I don't know what you're talking about.”  
Dean blew out an exasperated breath and shook his head.  
“OK, OK, Sam. You've been through...a trauma. But it's alright. We'll get you right. Just, stay here and I'll get you some fresh water, and we'll talk, OK? Just, stay calm. I'm gonna sort this. I'll fix it, OK?”  
Sam eyed him suspiciously, but gave a tiny nod.  
“Good,” Dean agreed. “I'll be right back.”  
Dean kept his eyes on Sam, until he was on the other side of the door. He slid the lock home and heard Sam's nervous “Hey!” before he ran for the kitchen.

“I'm telling you Bobby, he's looking at me like I'm a total stranger.”  
Dean went to take another swig from the half empty bottle, and Bobby moved forward to stay his hand.  
“Dammit, boy! Sam needs you clear-headed.”  
Dean glared at him, but replaced the cap and slammed the bottle down on the counter.  
“So what do we do now? He doesn't remember a damn thing.”  
Bobby took off his cap, scrubbed a hand through his grimy hair and put it back on.  
“Well we can't leave him locked down there like a damn animal. Bring him up. I'll fix him something to eat. He must be ravenous. And we'll talk. See if there's anything that rings a bell.”  
Dean was pacing back and forth, one hand playing absently at the nape of his neck.  
“Yeah, yeah. OK. But stay sharp. If he tries to bolt, I'm gonna have to take him down. He may not remember anything but he still has his instincts.”  
“You really think he will?”  
“You didn't see the way he looked at me, Bobby. It was like he didn't know me at all. Like I was gonna hurt him.”  
Dean swallowed hard past the weird lump which seemed to be forming in his gullet, and went to fill up a glass from the faucet.  
“Well,” said Bobby gently, “we knew this wall crumbling would be a bad business. A man goes through something like that, it's bound to leave him messed up six ways from Sunday. Maybe forgetting is his mind's way of protectin' itself. Maybe we shouldn't prod too much. Just let it come back to him gradually.”  
“And what if it doesn't come back at all?”  
Bobby fixed Dean with a resigned look and shrugged .  
“Well, maybe that wouldn't be such a bad thing.”

To his relief, when Dean looked through the hatch in the panic room door, Sam was sat on the bed, his head in his hands. Confusion and fatigue appeared to be winning out over his fight or flight reflexes. He looked up when Dean unlocked the door.  
“Drink this,” Dean said softly, handing Sam the tumbler.  
“Thanks,” Sam mumbled, but Dean saw him sniff the water surreptitiously before taking a sip. His thirst took over as soon as his tongue was wet though, and he drained the glass in a few long swallows.  
“How come I'm not in a hospital? And why'd you lock me in?” he asked once he'd got his breath back.  
“You looked terrified,” Dean offered by way of explanation.  
“So you thought locking me in a cell with freaky satanic symbols everywhere would put me at ease?”  
Sam looked incredulous, but despite his words he seemed to have relaxed a little bit. Dean couldn't help but smile a little at that.  
“Well, when you put it like that...Look, dude, I didn't mean to spook you. You're safe here. I promise. I'm your...I'm the last person in the world who'd hurt you. In fact, I'd do pretty much anything to keep you safe. Whether you remember me or not, I need you to believe that, OK?”  
Sam regarded him with an odd expression, and Dean realised that his little speech probably hadn't done much to dispel Sam's qualms. Hell, he probably came off more Jeffrey Dahmer than concerned sibling.  
“What is this place, anyway?” Sam asked, looking up at the devil's trap and round at the various markings on the walls. “It gives me the heebies.”  
Dean thought back to the sound of Sam's screams bouncing around the walls when he was jonesing for demon blood, the way he looked lashed to the very bed they were sitting on. He sighed.  
“Why don't you come upstairs and say 'hi' to Bobby and we'll get you something to eat?”  
Right on cue, as if it were a separate, sentient being, Sam's stomach growled and he gave a small, embarrassed smile.  
“OK.”

Either hunger was overriding his usual fastidiousness, or Sam had forgotten he wasn't the type to wolf down three of Bobby's greasy grilled cheese sandwiches in one sitting. Dean hovered, itching to tell him to slow down or he'd be sick, but not wanting to come off bossy. Sam washed the stodge down with a glass of water and a cup of coffee to which Dean had added cream and sugar before handing it over, and Sam seemed to be enjoying.  
“So,” he said around a mouthful of molten cheese. “How do we all know each other?”  
Dean and Bobby exchanged a look and Dean said,  
“Well, the thing is, Sam, we think it'd be best if we don't say too much for now. Spoilers, y'know?” He attempted a grin, but there was no real mirth in it. “We want you to try and remember on your own.”  
Sam pushed his empty plate away and chewed thoughtfully.  
“But I don't remember anything,” he said eventually. “Nothing at all. I don't even know what I...huh...” He trailed off, standing to open one of the kitchen cupboards, angling the door so that he could see his reflection. He moved his head around trying to get a better view, and finally shook his head.  
“Wait here,” said Dean, and disappeared, only to return a few moments later with Bobby's shaving mirror. He held it up for Sam who walked towards him, almost like he was afraid to look, but then Sam took the glass from him, holding it to the light and tilting his chin. He gave an experimental smile and then narrowed his eyes before looking back at Dean.  
“Aren't we...um...”  
Dean nodded expectantly.  
“Go on, Sammy.”  
“Aren't we a handsome pair of bastards,” he said, smiling wryly at Dean. Dean let out the breath he hadn't realised he was holding, and returned Sam's smile.  
“Yep. Yes, we are.”  
Bobby snorted, and Dean winked, thankful his brother was no longer looking at him with fear in his eyes, but disturbed nonetheless.

“So I hold the dolly in this hand,” Dean said over his shoulder, “and then gently tap out the dent from the other side with the hammer. See?”  
Sam, thumbed a drop of sweat off his eyebrow and leaned forward to watch was Dean was doing.  
“You know, I think this is gonna make work near impossible, Dean.”  
“What's that?”  
Dean put down his tools and stood to take a sip of his beer.  
“Well, clearly the three of us work in auto-repair, and I don't remember a single thing about fixing cars. Gonna make doing the job a little tricky, isn't it?”  
Dean looked at Sam, shielding his eyes from the low sun with his palm.  
“Well, this ain't what you do for a living. And bodywork was always more my thing. I taught you a thing or two about this particular car though. It was actually yours for a while.”  
“Yeah?” Sam asked, his interest piqued. “'S that what happened to me? Car wreck?”  
Dean thought about how awful it was that he half wished it were that simple.  
“No. You weren't in a crash, Sammy. Not recently anyway.”  
“Oh,” Sam said. Dean watched him ponder for a moment, then he asked, “Do I like being called 'Sammy'?”  
Dean all out laughed at that. Couldn't help himself.  
“No. Not really,” he said. “But it's never stopped me.”  
Sam smiled and slid into the driver's side, open where the door had been removed and propped up against the hood. Dean watched as he slid his hands over the dash and along the leather of the seat as if it would yield secrets to his touch. His pulse picked up when Sam pulled open the ashtray and peered inside, fingers working at the little green plastic soldier wedged right at the back.  
_Here we go_ , thought Dean. But his heart sank when Sam merely frowned and pushed it closed again. He picked up the hammer and began knocking at the dent.

Dean let Sam root around Bobby's house. Occasionally, Sam asked him questions and he answered them as truthfully as he could without opening Pandora's box. Sam snickered at the books, pegging Bobby for a horror writer or conspiracy theorist. The panic room just gave credence to the latter. Sam looked perturbed as he went through his own meager possessions, positing that he'd been a soldier when he found the hunting knife in his bag, and Dean paused just long enough for Sam to get the bit between his teeth. Dean sighed as Sam went through a list of occupations ranging from the sublime to the ridiculous, Sam getting more and more frustrated at every 'no'. But each scenario he dreamt up got them a little closer to the crazy truth, so Dean clammed up, and Sam slammed his hand into the wall hard enough to send a shock-wave of pain through his whole body.  
“Careful with that one, Sam,” Dean said, as his brother cradled his wrist. “You broke it badly a few years back.”  
“Now you tell me, asshole,” Sam said, voice tight and tremulous. Dean took his hand gently, prodding for serious injury.  
“You're OK. It's just bruised.”  
Sam blew out a breath and slumped on the bed.  
“I just want my life back.”  
Dean pinched the bridge of his nose and went to perch on the edge of the bed.  
“Sam, believe me. There's nothing I'd like better than to fill you in, but you gotta trust me when I tell you that some of the things you don't remember could be really dangerous for you. An information overload before you're ready could set off an avalanche. You can't push this, man. Some things are better left unknown.”  
Sam flung one arm over his face and said miserably,  
“You're probably right. I mean I apparently have one duffel bag of shitty clothes to my name, I carry a lethal weapon, have no fixed abode, no income as far as I can tell and my only friends are a grouchy, paranoid old man with an unhealthy interest in the occult and a narcissist who thinks hard liquor is a suitable breakfast stuff. I'm not a regular, salt of the earth kinda guy, am I?”  
Dean attempted a laugh, but it was a little strained.  
“Nope. You're a freak, dude. But so am I, and that's how we like it.”

A few nights later, Dean took one of Bobby's cars and drove Sam to a diner a few miles away. He half hoped and half feared the simple, familiar feel of riding side by side, listening to tyres spinning on asphalt, slipping into the vinyl seats of a booth and ordering some of Sam's favourite foods would jog something loose. Dean brought along some of his cassettes, and felt a warm flood of hope engulf him when Sam started to sing along with _Nothing Else Matters_.  
“You remember this song?”  
“Yeah. I mean I remember the words and the tune and the band, but I don't remember if I liked it or...I mean, is this my kind of music?”  
Dean glanced at Sam and thought about enlightening him, but at the last second he said,  
“Well, how does it make you feel?”  
Sam contemplated for a while before answering, uncertainty colouring his voice.  
“Safe, I guess. That's a weird thing to say. But it's true. I think. It makes me feel safe.”  
Dean kept staring straight ahead for the rest of the journey, and he told himself if the road looked a little blurry, it was just because he was over-tired and frustrated.

Sam studied his laminated menu like it was a complex mathematical problem. Dean thought maybe this action, something Sam had probably done more than anything else in his life, was starting to turn the mechanism which would spring the lock on his memories, but after a while Sam looked up, blew a strand of hair off his forehead and said,  
“I don't even remember what I like to eat! I mean, that's weird, right? Weirder than the rest of it even. I must know what tastes good!”  
“Hey,” Dean said, putting a steadying hand on Sam's arm. “Don't sweat it. Want me to order for you?”  
Sam nodded, his brow furrowed and lips pursed in a way which was so familiar to Dean, it made his chest ache. Even if Sam didn't realise it, he was still Dean's little brother from the pissy expression right down to the way his foot was jouncing under the table, and Dean knew what he needed.  
“Can I getcha darlin'?” The waitress's voice broke Dean's train of thought and he looked up at her, giving her his best hundred watt smile before turning his attention back to the menu.  
“I'll have a cheese-steak sandwich with a side of curly fries, and my partner here will have the chicken on rye and a house salad. Oh, and two Buds. Thanks.”  
Dean checked out her ass as she turned and walked with a deliberate swing to her hips, and when he looked back at Sam, his brother was looking at him with a puzzled expression.  
“What?”  
Sam raised his eyebrows.  
“Dude! She's old enough to be your mother!”  
“So? I like a lady with experience.” Dean scoffed.  
“Well, I just...forget about it.”  
“No. Spit it out, Sam. I wanna hear it.”  
Sam's mouth tugged into a kind of upside down smile – his patented facial equivalent of a shrug - and Dean was comforted by the fact that Sam's body retained the imprint of the person it housed, even if his mind hadn't caught up yet.  
“Just...seems like you're selling yourself short, is all.”  
Dean almost dropped the fork he was fiddling with.  
“I beg your pardon?”  
There was a blush slowly blooming across Sam's cheeks and the bridge of his nose. He ducked his head and started picking at his paper napkin.  
“I'm just saying,” he muttered down at the Formica, “I can't see why you would be checking out some middle-aged diner waitress when you could have anyone you want.”  
Dean wasn't sure his eyebrows could get any closer to his hairline, but they did. He was going to laugh, rag on Sam until he was hoarse, he really was. But something in his little brother's demeanor gave him pause. Instead of laughing, he made an embarrassing, choked sound and gave up a silent prayer of thanks when the beers arrived and gave him something to focus on, other than the dark whisper of a question which was forming in the back of his mind.

Their food arrived shortly afterward and Sam watched Dean eat with an amused expression. He speared some of his own salad, took a bite of sandwich, and nodded his approval at his brother.  
“I think you were right. This is exactly what I wanted,” he said when he'd swallowed his mouthful. “And you sure don't eat like someone who watches their weight so I retract my male model theory.”  
Dean grinned, a strand of melted cheese strung between his lip and chin, and Sam's hand flashed out unthinkingly to wipe it away. Dean recoiled and he whipped it back again.  
“I'm sorry you had, something...” He gestured to his own face.  
Dean eyed him, trying to keep the awkwardness he felt from showing. Sam clearly had a sense that they had been close, in tune physically, and was playing off instinct, only without the final puzzle piece of the familial connection, he was unsure of boundaries. And who could blame him? Dean had to admit on paper, it was effed up. How was the kid's sense memory supposed to reconcile sharing a bed with Dean, putting his hands on him to check for breakages, sucking venom out of wounds and taking a piss while he chatted to Dean in the shower with the fact that he shouldn't be wiping food from his mouth in public? Perhaps it was time to give Sam a little nudge in the right direction.  
“So, any inklings yet, Sammy? Is it coming back to you how we..?” he pointed his index finger back and forth between them.  
Sam put down his fork and took a swig of beer.  
“I think so,” he said finally. “At least I thought I had it, but...” he trailed off.  
“Go on,” Dean urged.  
“I can't be sure,” Sam said, his brow scrunched so hard that Dean had the urge to smooth out the wrinkles above his nose with a thumb like he had when they were kids.  
“Stop over-thinking and just tell me, poindexter.”  
Sam sighed. He closed his eyes for slightly too long to be blinking, and Dean realised he was steeling himself.  
“OK. I don't actually _remember_ anything, but I know we were close. Are close. Like, you're pretty much my whole life. And I know how that sounds so don't hit me if this all news to you, but shit. I just don't remember. I feel like something happened and maybe what we were to each other changed, and I feel like maybe it was my fault. I think maybe you can be a total dick, and infuriating, but also I think you're brave and selfless and _good_ and that there's -”  
Dean watched as the words came pouring out of his brother in a breathless flurry and felt his chest constrict with something that wasn't indigestion.  
“There's what, Sam?” he pressed.  
“There's no me without you,” Sam finished quietly. “So if I never remember it's OK, because you do, and that's good enough.”  
Dean sat stunned for a while, watching Sam bite his lip nervously.  
“Brothers,” he said when he remembered how to breathe. “We're brothers, Sammy.”  
“Oh,” said Sam, a little undercurrent of genuine surprise, like it hadn't even crossed his mind. “Oh.”

Weeks passed and the Winchesters fell into a routine of sorts. They'd wake late, eat brunch then Dean would check the news for any signs of the disaster he knew must be impending. Every day of silence, of peace for Sam, was a gift, but the uncertainty weighed heavily on him. He felt portentous. A kind of soul-deep tiredness. Sam would read for a while, or go for a walk. Dean refused to let him take one of Bobby's cars out on his own in case he blacked out, but sometimes he'd take him for a drive. In the afternoons, they would spend time in companionable silence, fixing up the Impala, until the light began to wane and they'd crack open a couple of beers and drink them on her hood, black paint burnished by the last of the sun's rays. Sometimes in those moments, Dean would feel his brother's gaze on him, bask in it for as long as he could stand before turning to meet it, never quite catching what was written in it before the curtain came down again.

In the evenings, they'd take turns in the kitchen. Sometimes Bobby was there, sometimes he was away. Sam had quit asking where he'd go for days at a time after Dean's answers became increasingly far-fetched. After eating, they'd watch TV or even a movie on Bobby's archaic VHS machine. Sam didn't remember what he had or hadn't seen, so even the old hunter's paltry collection of titles was a goldmine to him. The gaping hole where his past should have been seemed to bother Sam less and less. He asked about their family and Dean answered honestly that they were orphans and refused to be drawn any further, except to say they both owed Bobby a debt of gratitude he couldn't see them being able to repay in this lifetime.

Having anticipated trouble for so many weeks, Dean was completely unprepared when Castiel showed up while his head was buried under the Impala's hood. His limpid eyes, so blue and guileless, the smudged trench-coat, his dry lips - things that used to fill Dean with a bewildered affection - now made his whole body tense and his hands ache to throttle whatever was riding poor Jimmy Novak these days, out of his body.  
“Hello Dean.”  
“Don't you talk to me you sonofabitch. If you're gonna kill me, do it now and make a good job of it, or I'll find a way to end you.”  
“I'm sorry you feel that way Dean. I've always protected you, even though you defy me time and time again.”  
“Oh really? And what about Sam, you bastard? Huh? His brain is Swiss fucking cheese thanks to you, so nothing you can say's gonna convince me you have my best interests at heart.”  
Castiel shook his head.  
“I told you I would save Sam if you'd only back off and let me do what needed to be done. I kept up my end of the bargain even though you didn't. A little gratitude would be nice.”  
Dean narrowed his eyes and rolled his shoulders to relieve the pain working its way across them.  
“What're you talking about?”  
“Sam's memories. I...burnt them out.”  
“You did _what?_ ”  
“Just before I left you to pursue Raphael's followers, I wiped his memories. It seemed a more...permanent solution to his problem. I thought you'd be pleased. After all, it was good enough for the woman and child.”  
Dean stood, his mouth working around a thousand questions his brain couldn't process. Eventually he managed to croak a single word.  
“Why?”  
“You mean why did I help your brother even though you tried to sabotage me? Even though Sam would have killed me?”  
“You broke the wall. Then you erased his whole life!”  
Dean knew he shouldn't keep pushing, that he should be pleased Sam was in no imminent danger of being overwhelmed by flashbacks, but he couldn't help clinging to the anger he felt towards the thing that used to be Cas.  
“Dean Winchester. There always needs to be something to rail against, doesn't there? I show you nothing but benevolence and still you piss and whine. I'm running out of patience, Dean. Even for you.”  
“Why did you come here?”  
“I wanted to tell you it's over. I stand unopposed. And to ask you to put aside any notions you have of looking for me...for whatever ends. I won't warn you again. Look after Sam and stay out of my affairs. Goodbye, Dean.”  
There was a dry whisper of feathers and then Sam appeared in the doorway, calling his name.  
“Dean! Who were you talking to?”  
“No one, Sammy,” he replied, hoping his brother couldn't seen the tears starting in his eyes. “Just thinking aloud.”

Dean knew Bobby was remembering the exchange they'd had while Sam was unconscious but, to the old man's credit, he managed to refrain from bringing it up as Dean looked for properties to rent on Sam's laptop. He'd carefully deleted the search history of its myriad porn sites and pages on lore before he'd given it back to his brother, and to all intents and purposes it was just a computer now. Sam used it to play solitaire and to browse news sites, to watch music videos on YouTube and laugh at pithy blogs. If he used it for more adult entertainment, he made sure he covered his tracks before Dean laid hands on it again.

Once he'd paid the deposit on a little place an hour's drive from Singer Salvage, he used the laptop to search for work. Labouring and bar work mostly. Places he thought he'd be able to get Sam a job too, once they'd settled in a bit.

It was a couple of days before they were due to move into their own place that everything changed. Or maybe nothing did. Not really. Dean was sprawled on Bobby's couch. The old man was off investigating some strange deaths two counties over, and Sam was sat with his knees tucked up under his chin at Dean's feet. They were watching an old spaghetti western and Sam let his head roll around to rest against Dean's thigh. Dean absently wound a strand of his brother's treacle-dark hair around his finger, and sighed contentedly as the warmth of Sam's cheek seeped through the fabric of his jeans. He raked lightly through the unruly mop and felt Sam relax into the touch as he gently scratched at the shorter growth at his nape.  
“Dean?”  
Sam's voice was sleepy and soft and it reminded Dean of when he was a kid.  
“Hmm?”  
“What happened to us?”  
Dean felt a cold prickle start on his own scalp at those words.  
“What d'ya mean, Sammy?”  
“This. Us. It's not...I mean I know we're brothers and all, but -”  
Dean retracted his hand but Sam's head stayed where it was. Dean thought back to the diner a few weeks back, the way Sam had seemed almost shocked when he told him they were related. Dean hadn't wanted to examine the possibility that Sam had badly misjudged the situation at the time, and everything that might mean. And he sure as hell didn't want to examine it now.  
“It's not normal, Dean. One of these days you're gonna have to tell me how we got here.”  
Sam lifted his head to look at his brother, and got to his knees, shuffling to fit himself into the space between Dean's legs. Dean gulped and licked at his suddenly dry lips.  
“Got where? Bobby's?” he said, voice raspy.  
“You know where,” Sam replied sadly before leaning in and pressing his lips to his brother's.  
For a moment it was soft and sweet, Sam's lips so warm and gentle against his own, but then Sam let out a small moan and parted his lips against Dean's, slipping his tongue out to change the nature of the thing and Dean managed to get his hands on Sam's shoulders and shoved him hard. Sam rocked back, steadying himself on his hands, hair falling in his eyes and lips kiss-swollen. Dean tried to ignore the burgeoning erection pressing out the fly of his pants and resisted the urge to lick Sam's taste off his own lips.  
“What the fuck was that, Sam?”  
His voice sounded small and more awed than outraged.  
“We might be brothers, “ Sam said slowly, “but that's not all we are.”  
“Oh yeah? How'd you figure that?”  
“I may not remember, but I can feel, Dean. I've got nothing left. I have no past, no idea who I am, but I know I'm yours. It's the only thing I'm certain of.”  
Sam crowded in again, huge hands coming up to cup his face, and Dean had nothing, so he let himself be kissed, Sam's words echoing in his skull. Dean thought about Jess, lost and lost again. A forgotten girl in a graveyard who'd loved a facet of his brother for a while. He thought about the devastation she'd left in her wake, how it'd taken so damn much for Sam to open up a fraction in the years that followed only to get burned over and over.

Dean thought about his own attempts at making something outside of this. He thought of Cassie who'd seen the whole truth of him and pushed him away. Of Lisa, the one who'd stayed and ended up a pretty, smiling stranger in a hospital bed, and of her son who'd be able to sleep with the lights off now without him there playing at Dad. He thought about those countless, nameless fucks he'd used as a quick distraction from the fear and pain and the crushing weight duty. Of Sam regarding him with reborn eyes, holding up a mirror. Calling him out on his lack of self worth, how he was hollowed out under the cheap veneer of smirks and winks and one-liners.

He thought, as Sam's tongue tentatively lapped into his mouth, how his brother was right. Sammy had always been his, all of him, and never more so than at that moment when Dean stood between his little brother and the secrets that made up all he'd been until the moment he woke on the panic room bed. Free of the memories which were playing out in Dean's head – shared snow cones, bruised knees, bedtime stories which pointedly didn't mention the monster in the closet - Sam was stripped down to pure instinct, and on the basest level he wanted his brother. Dean had never been any good at refusing Sam.

Dean's hands came up to crush Sam to him. He felt the muscles bunch and lengthen in Sam's back as he moved, deepening the kiss with a tilt of his head and a groan. Dean was making out with his own brother, the brother he'd be living alone with in a rented apartment a couple of days from now. The same but different. Dean remembered all the times they'd been mistaken for this. Attracted odd glances from motel clerks and witnesses who scrutinised the way they stood a little too close and said a little too much without ever opening their mouths. Had _this_ been there this whole time, a truffle waiting to be rootled out – ugly and dark but heady and precious all at once?

“Stop thinking,” Sam murmured against his lips, and Dean could almost believe for a second that Sam had been playing him all along. Even without the knowledge of experience to pin it to, Sam's personality, the things that made him Sam were engraved on his soul, just as sure as the sigils on his ribs and the scars on his skin. He was Dean's. He'd never been anyone else's.

Sam broke off to pull his tee off over his head and Dean took in the sculpted beauty of his torso from this new slant. He wondered if his interest in Sam's physique had always just been about appreciation for a finely honed machine. Whether, each time he'd laid hands on his brother over the years, checking for new wounds and fractures, the way his pulse picked up and his dick got a little hard in his underwear really were just the remnants of fear and adrenaline. He'd had plenty of opportunities to try the feel of hard planes under his hands, the drag of stubble against his lips, the heft of another man's cock pressed against his belly, but he'd never dared take them. Perhaps, he realised now, because he knew deep down that he'd like it. Because he'd never have been able to come back to whatever dive they were calling home that week and crawl into bed with his brother again, safe in the knowledge that when he woke with Sam's heat enveloping him, his smell in his nostrils, Sam's butt snugged up against his aching hardness, that it meant nothing because Dean Winchester only dug soft curves, damp panties, small hands and the sticky-sweet taste of lip gloss.

Sam tugging at the hem of his shirt dragged him out of his musing, and he shifted to give his brother room to work. Once they were both naked from the waist up, Sam's eyes drank in his brother, a soft gasp escaping him when he got to the large, hand-shaped brand on his shoulder. He traced it with a finger, put his palm flat over the identical tattoo Dean had inked on his breast. But the questions Dean was braced for never came. Dean let Sam fold him into a hug, warm skin fitted together, Sam's giant hands roaming all over his back, kneading, clutching. Then they were kissing again, and Dean knew he was lost because nothing had ever felt so good.  
“Sam, Sammy!”  
Sam reluctantly pulled his head back and blinked.  
“Hmm?”  
Dean looked into his brother's eyes, the muddle of colours there, glassy and sated.  
“You sure?”  
Sam nodded and stood to open his buckle.

Dean watched as his brother unzipped, then stooped to shuck his socks. He straightened again and kept his eyes fixed on Dean's while he slowly pushed his jeans and boxers down over the swell of his ass and off his thighs, letting them pool momentarily at his knees before they crumpled to the floor. He stepped out of them and stood, naked as the day he was born, bluish light from the long-forgotten television flickering across his skin. Dean allowed himself a lingering sweep of his brother's body, now he no longer had to hide his interest. Sam's cock was more than halfway hard, long and thick, jutting out and steadily rising towards his taut stomach. His legs were strong and straight, everything beautifully proportioned. Dean knew his own liquid gold eyes and plush mouth were not to be sniffed at, but he'd always felt banged up and real: Bones which weren't reset in time and healed crooked, freckles, bowed legs, unsightly burns, tummy a little too soft from the diner food and beer he loved so well, crow's feet which seemed etched just a bit deeper every day. These were the things Dean noticed when he saw his reflection. But Sam? Sam wore every scrape and imperfection with a grace Dean could hardly fathom. He belonged in a frigging art gallery.

“So gorgeous, Dean,” Sam breathed, plucking out his brother's thought, flipping and voicing it again effortlessly. Dean opened his mouth to say something wise-ass, but the way that Sam was looking at him stopped him in his tracks and made him want to weep like a girl. Sam pushed him back against the cushions and set to unbuttoning his fly. Dean raised his hips and let his brother strip him of his jeans and underwear, slightly ashamed of the way his cock sprang up to hit his abs with a meaty thwack. But Sam just licked his lips and knelt on the floor beside the couch, dipping his head to nuzzle at Dean's jaw and neck before making steady progress down his body with fingertips and tongue, sucking at his nipple in a way which tore a moan from the pit of his belly and made his cock drool sticky, clear fluid down its own length. By the time Sam starting to tongue his navel, Dean's hips were hunching and he was pretty sure he was about to sob if Sam didn't touch his dick.

Sam was making broken little noises of his own, hand disappearing between his legs now and then to grip the base of his swollen shaft tightly. He whimpered when his tongue gently licked at the slick head of Dean's cock for the first time, his eyes falling shut then opening to stare into Dean's eyes.  
“So wet, Dean. God, you're close already aren't you?”  
Dean let his head fall back and moaned his affirmation.  
“Please, Sammy. Please suck me.”  
But Sam simply chuckled and continued with soft little licks around the crown, running his moist lips along the length, nosing lightly at the soft skin of Dean's sac. Dean snarled his fingers in Sam's hair, just this side of rough, and tried to guide his head where he wanted it, but Sam suckled and swirled and nipped, keeping his big brother on the edge, but offering no release.  
Finally Dean cracked and growled,  
“Come here, you little shit,” hauling Sam up by his hair and pulling him down on top of his prone body. Pressed together, skin to skin all along their forms, Dean wrapped his arms around his brother and let his fingers play feather-light along Sam's spine, making him squirm and writhe against him, and Dean's world drilled down to dimples and strong white teeth. They both took a deep, shocky breath as Dean spread his legs and Sam slotted down between them, their slippery wet cocks sliding together. Sam wasn't laughing any more.  
“Oh Jesus, Sam. Yeah. Right there. Keep going.”  
Sam hissed and pumped his hips again, rubbing his throbbing dick against his brother's, the mess of precome making the glide smooth and perfect. Dean planted his hands on Sam's firm ass and pulled him into the thrusts, making him grind down harder until he was sure he'd go out of his mind with the pleasure of it. When Sam lost the ability to go carefully and was rutting against him for all he was worth, Dean released his death grip on the meat of his haunch and let his fingers explore the juncture of Sam's thighs, reached down to stroke the wisps of hair on his balls, ran one up the length of his crease until he reached the dry, puckered opening and tapped at it with the pad.

“Mmm,” Sam said, lifting his sweaty forehead from its resting place on Dean's scarred shoulder to moan right in Dean's ear. “Do it.”  
Dean shuddered and brought his hand up between their faces, Sam grabbing it and sucking the index finger into his hot mouth, wetting it with sloppy abandon. Dean pulled out, and reached down again, replacing his finger with his tongue, which Sam latched onto with the same gusto. He parted Sam's cheeks with his middle finger and slid the lubed index over his brother's hole, circling then pressing in millimeter by millimeter. When he was knuckle deep, he pulled out and fucked back in, pumping his finger as Sam thrust against him fast and messy with no finesse.  
“Oh, fuck!” Sam moaned into his mouth, and Dean was just about to ask if he'd hurt him when Sam's hips stuttered and Dean's groin was flooded with wet heat. Sam's ass clenched and spasmed around his finger, and then Dean was following his brother over the edge, spurting long and hard between them as they continued their slip-slide, Sam's undulations milking every last drop of come from his twitching cock. They rode the aftershocks, Sam panting into Dean's mouth until every nerve ending was shivery and ticklish, and their hips stopped churning. Dean removed his finger gently, and caught Sam's lips in a kiss and let his brother settle his head on his chest, heart beating a frantic rhythm against his cheek. He brought his hand up to pet through his too-long hair, breathing shallow under Sam's bulk.

“You OK?” Sam asked eventually in a barely there voice.  
Dean waited for the guilt, the nausea and regret to wash over him, but instead he felt only a deep-seated calm. He thought if he closed his eyes, he might well sleep for a week.  
“Yeah, Sammy. I'm OK. How you doing?”  
He felt Sam's breath against his neck as his brother laughed.  
“Well, I'm doing better than Bobby's couch cushions, that's for damn sure.”  
Dean couldn't help but bark a surprised laugh at that, shaking under his brother. Sam reached up and traced his lips with his thumb.  
“So what now, Dean? What happens now?”

Dean thought about the apartment waiting for them, honest work and a weekly grocery run. Somehow the thought of their insular existence outside of the life - as a _choice_ \- was more out-there and terrifying than Dean could wrap his head around. Camaraderie was one thing. Existing in the dark space beyond polite society. Long, desperate nights and stolen comfort in anonymous rooms. But there would be no hiding from what they'd just done in the daylight world he was contemplating.

Maybe it was inevitable they'd ended up here. Perhaps they'd always been on this road. Dean recalled a diner in Massachusetts, Sam eating some disgusting rabbit-food concoction, telling him that a wife and kids _weren't really his thing anymore_ , and suddenly it seemed to mean so much more than it had back then. That admission had come from the version of his brother who'd lived through more loss than anyone should ever have to. The Sam who knew that the sky was falling. Maybe this clean-slate Sam was grasping at him like a drowning man at a piece of driftwood because he knew nothing else, just like always. But maybe it was because he was hardwired that way. Maybe this Sam would choose safety and earning a regular wage. Maybe he'd choose friends and baseball and barbeques and sightseeing at the Grand Canyon. But maybe he'd choose the shadow life - grief, sacrifice and to keep fighting the good fight. Either way, it was Sam's decision. Sam's choice to make.

And Dean would follow. Always.

“Well,” Dean said, wrinkling his nose, “first – I'm gonna have to sponge off this couch. Then I suggest we go upstairs, shower, get into a warm bed and sleep like babies for at least eight hours.”  
“Sounds good. Then what?”  
Then, in the morning...I'm gonna tell you a story. A really long story.”  
“Oh yeah?” Sam lifted his head, cocked it like a damn spaniel. “What story?”  
Dean pressed a kiss to his brother's forehead.  
“The story of you and me.”

 

 

 


End file.
